


Words Fail

by Chiomi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is sent to negotiate with hostile hunters, because, as a human, they shouldn't harm him.</p><p>It goes badly, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Fail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thanks to AlwaysBoth for the unreasonably sleep-deprived brainstorming in Narita and, as always, for the beta reading.

There are hunters in Beacon Hills. They aren’t Argents, this time, and don’t follow their Code. They have their own, something about assured harmlessness and not hurting humans. That last clause, Stiles assumes, is why Derek’s waiting in his room when he comes home from practice.

“Here to ravage my willing body?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, all exasperation. If he can tell that Stiles would be emphatically okay with ‘yes’ being the answer to his question, he doesn’t let slip. He still hasn’t told Stiles to stop, though, which is something.

Stiles dumps his sports bag and starts emptying his backpack. “Yeah, yeah. When and where are we meeting them?”

“An hour, at the depot. You should see Deaton first.”

Stiles snorts. “For what? An extra dose of cryptic? These guys are human. I’ve been dealing with humans my entire life.”

Derek makes expressive eyebrows at him. “Unless you’re stealing one of the department’s bullet-proof vests, we’re stopping at the clinic.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and checks his pockets for his wallet and keys. They haven’t wandered off in the last couple of minutes, so he leaves his stuff and starts back downstairs. “Are we taking your car or mine?”

“Yours,” Derek says, twisting so that he’s out on the roof again. “Isaac’s picking up Boyd.”

He drops out of sight, and Stiles rolls his eyes again, because what kind of person has that many issues with stairs?

Derek’s waiting beside the Jeep, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. His head is slightly bowed, and Stiles thinks he’s been watching too much Buffy on Netflix. It’s like he’s taken Angel as his role model, with the posture and tragedy and permanent brooding and hair gel. “Why does no one ever give me a straight answer as to whether or not vampires are real?”

Derek raises his eyebrows at him. “Really?”

Stiles pesters him on the way to the animal clinic, more to fill the silence and not think about talking to hunters than to get a real answer. There’s been escalating violence every time he tries to talk to hunters, from wall-slamming to a vicious beating. He’d really like it not to become a pattern, especially as he’ll probably wind up dead if this escalated from the thing with Gerard.

The clinic’s still open, but there’s no one in the parking lot. When they go in, Deaton calls from the back, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Stiles opens the swinging gate, holds it for Derek as they hear one of the cats start hissing, loud and continuous. “It’s just us. We’ll come to you.”

“Stiles?”

“And Derek,” Stiles says, going back to the surgery. It’s been an odd few months, but Stiles is familiar with every corner of the clinic now. Deaton makes him meditate, and doles out cryptic advice and had him tend the massive bonfire at his house where he burned huge piles of rowan down to ashes. It hasn’t turned him into Harry Potter, and they never really talk about magic, if that’s what’s going on, but he’s able to decide whether or not to focus, and what to focus on, a little better. He’s helped calm animals with touch, but nothing notable, nothing he can point to as being definitively supernatural. It’s been frustrating, to say the least.

Deaton looks up from where he’s charting something, and carefully sets his pen down.

“So we’re going to see some hunters, and Derek wanted me to see if you had anything for extra protection from humans.”

Deaton passes a hand over a drawer, then opens it. He looks into it contemplatively. “Do you know that your aptitudes won’t make you a viable target for them?”

Stiles shrugs, uncomfortable. “No, but I’m still the best option. My dad can’t do it, he doesn’t know anything, and Melissa wouldn’t. We have no way of knowing if they’d consider Lydia human. So unless you’re volunteering . . .”

Deaton fishes out a clear gold piece of amber. “This is for general protection,” he says, holding it out. “I’m not going to tell you it won’t stop a bullet, but keep your limits in mind.”

Stiles takes the chunk of amber, smooth and warm in his hand and almost beta bright. “Yeah.” He hadn’t really expected anything else, because Deaton hasn’t shown any particularly strong impulses about helping them by getting directly involved. Even with Gerard, it had been GPS coordinates scribbled on the back of Scott’s paycheck after Deaton tracked him down. Deaton doesn’t engage the enemy. It seems to be his thing.

Derek looks at his phone and makes an impatient noise. “We need to go.”

“We’d have way more time if you’d texted me like a normal person,” Stiles snaps. He kind of wants to ask Deaton what he meant by knowing his limits, because he doesn’t, no one’s told him. But he’ll just - he’ll do what he needs to. He always does.

They clamber back into the Jeep - well, Stiles clambers, Derek slides effortlessly - and head towards the depot. “So, what do you want me to get from them in terms of, uh, terms?”

“For them to leave and not come back.”

Which is helpful, real helpful, because they’ve shown themselves so open to leaving already. “Okay, and if I can’t get that?”

Derek smiles, all asshole white teeth. “Then we’ll probably have to kill them.”

“Oh, great, no pressure, then. I’m probably going to fail miserably and they’ll kill me first and trebuchet the bits at you.” He starts the Jeep and pulls out of the parking lot.

Derek huffs out a breath. “You’ll manage, and you’ll call for backup if it goes south.”

Stiles gnaws on his lower lip, and tries to think of only the things that are likely to go wrong. “You’ll wait for a signal, though, right? No charging in just because you think I can’t handle it.”

“Fine.”

“Seriously, not even if - I can handle pain, okay? People hitting me usually means I’m right. Like, if they’re beating me to death, yeah, sure, backup’d be great then, but I got Chris to recognize that Kate was a psychopath after he’d slammed me into something, and you decided not to be a douchebag after slamming me into a wall.”

Derek’s hands curl into fists in his lap. “I said fine.”

“Is Scott meeting us there?”

“He didn’t answer when I called.”

Stiles fishes out his own phone and hands it over. “He wouldn’t.”

Derek stares at it a minute, then taps out a text. “What’s the signal?”

“Havoc,” Stiles says, and smirks a little.

Derek snorts. “You really have an unhealthy addiction to dog jokes.”

Stiles feels a little lighter at the prospect of imminent failure and death, because Derek gets - admittedly mainstream - Shakespeare jokes. “Hey, whatever works, right?”

Derek shakes his head, and they finish the drive in silence. Stiles parks in front of the building, turns off the Jeep, and pulls the brake. “They’re inside?”

“Just the two of them. A lot of gun oil.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Well, that’s not terrifying at all. Let’s get this show on the road.”

He checks his pocket reflexively for the amber, believes as hard as he can that it’ll keep him from harm and anyway he has backup, and steels himself to go inside.

He throws open the door dramatically, wishes there were a thunderstorm to backlight him dramatically, and says, “I’m human and I’m here on behalf of the Hale pack.”

There’s a gun trained on him - two, now - and they’re both handling them like they know how to use them, which is kind of expected but still not great. One’s against the wall, the other sitting at a card table pretending nonchalance. There’s only one free chair, another rickety metal folding contraption. Stiles takes it, clatters into it like he’s home and comfortable. “So what’ll it take for you guys to leave and not come back?”

The man across from him grins unpleasantly. “Dead monsters are usually pretty persuasive.”

Stiles leans forward, plants his forearms on the table. The guy at the wall is standing pretty much in front of a duffel bag - one full of hard shapes, so he’s guessing more weapons and not spare socks. “Despite what you might have heard, we’re a pretty peaceful pack, and we’d like to stay that way.”

“You call three dead hunters, an alpha pack, and more than twenty civilian casualties pretty peaceful? The Hale pack’s a damn menace.”

Okay, so they did actually do some research. Stiles replies carefully, “The member of the pack who went rogue and killed people was put down. We killed him, because what he did was wrong and we wanted to keep the problems internal. The alpha pack was a matter of defending ourselves and our territory, which isn’t something that makes us a threat.” He pauses deliberately, and smiles. “Well, not to anyone who isn’t trying to hurt us.”

“From what I saw,” drawls the man at the wall, “you’re a pack of teenagers. Not very stable. And if any of you go to college? What are you going to do, move in and take over new territory and kill the resident wolves?”

“If we do want to move in to another pack’s territory for college, the current plan is to contact the alpha of that pack and ask for permission. If we’re not granted permission, we go to the next one on our list. We want everything to be peaceful - our Alpha grew up in a pack that was mostly extended family. That’s our goal, not anything militaristic or gang-like.”

The man against the wall snorts, and his gun stays steady on Stiles. It doesn’t bode well.

Stiles sits back and spreads his hands, emphasizing that he’s unarmed. “Look, what can I do to convince you?”

“Are there any women in the pack?”

That’s - oh: women would make them less like a terrorist organization, more like a pseudo-family. Lydia doesn’t count, and even if she was part of the pack, he couldn’t call attention to her, because she has none of the advantages of the werewolves or the hunter or the Sheriff’s son. “We consider Allison Argent pack.”

“A psychotic human hunter? You’re really not selling yourselves as harmless here.” He pushes back from the table and stands.

Stiles stays very, very still, because this is classic predator behaviour. You make yourself bigger to make the other person feel weak and threatened. He learned this from his dad, who pointed it out in Law and Order, but his dad never told him how to counter it effectively. If he stands up, he’s giving away that he feels threatened. So Stiles tries choking down the fear - something he’s good at, these days - and acting normal. “She’s not psychotic. We had some issues with other hunters lying to her, but it’s handled, now.”

“Yeah, I heard about that body count. That’s pretty much how you always handle things, isn’t it?”

Stiles wonders why the hell they even bothered to set up a meeting. They don’t seem particularly receptive to negotiation. “It’s really not how -”

Yeah, okay. Being that far in his personal space is definitely not conducive to negotiations. “You need to back off.”

“I’m really done with listening to the yammerings of a monster-fucker.”

And that’s a knife pressed to his stomach, and an unfair accusation, because he hasn’t been given the opportunity to sleep with Derek at all. “So you should tell me where they den and cut all this short for everyone.”

He needs the wolves in here now, and needs to signal them without tipping off the hunters that he’s calling for backup. Derek and the Halettes and Scott better be close, or he’s dead. “You know they’ll wreak havoc if you kill me, right? Like, I’m not their favourite human - except Erica, I might have been Erica’s favourite - but it’ll be havoc. Complete havoc. Not to mention my dad, the sheriff, and the havoc his investigation will unleash. Basically your whole lives will be havoc and also pain. There won’t be any running from it, not when you’re being hunted by law enforcement and a pack and, honestly, yeah, the Argents might help too, because Chris doesn’t completely hate me.”

Stiles is the king of subtlety. His crown will be made of argon lights and rhinestones.

The windows burst inwards in a hail of angry leather.

Stiles slams himself backwards, toppling the chair, as gunfire starts up and the wolves start snarling. He’s worse than useless if he lets himself be a hostage at knifepoint. He slams into the ground hard, because it’s hard figuring out how to roll free of a chair to fall properly. His head hits the concrete, and blooms hot pain. He drags himself slowly to a crouch.

The hunters are fast, and two men shouldn’t be any kind of match for four werewolves, but Boyd’s frantically trying to claw a bullet out of Isaac as black spreads like vines on both of them. Scott’s trying to disarm one as the other takes knives to Derek. Everyone’s bleeding.

Stiles claws under the table for the duffel, and, yes, awesome, there’s a handgun there. He wrenches it out and aims - stance, what stance? he’s on the goddamn floor - and squeezes the trigger. The hunter with a knife hilt-deep in Derek stills and then twitches as blood spurts from his neck. Stiles had been aiming for his chest, but he’s okay with this, really totally okay with this, since the hunter is dead. Derek rips the knife out of his side and throws it across the room and rips the other hunter away from Scott and claws his throat open.

Derek lets the body drop and goes back to the hunter that had been attacking him, clawing at his neck.

Stiles fumbles the magazine out of the gun and throws it at Boyd and Isaac. He’s panting, and there’s blood on his face. He’s not sure whose it is, and the hot metallic smell is not helping him get his breathing under control. He swipes the cuff of his hoodie over his cheek again. “Excellent response time, guys.”

Derek gets out his lighter, and helps Boyd break bullets and pour little piles of wolfsbane on the floor. “Had to shut you up somehow.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d get it,” Stiles says defensively, watching as the four of them pack their various wounds with powdered wolfsbane. Scott’s the only one who screams.

Derek raises his eyebrows at him, and uses the remains of his shirt to scrub at the blood that’s dried on his chest.

Stiles deflates a little, and keeps wiping his fingerprints off the gun with his severely gross hoodie. “Okay, yeah, but it worked, didn’t it?”

“It did,” Derek says, and offers Boyd a hand up. “We should get out of here. Make sure you get your fingerprints off everything.”

“Are we not going to clean up the dead bodies?”

Derek shifts, just the claws of one hand, and holds them up and waves them back and forth. “Beacon Hills just gets so many animal attacks.”

“Wow, that is such a shitty plan. How’s my dad going to explain how an animal attack happened in the warehouse district? Or the discharged firearms?”

Isaac sighed loudly. “It’s not like he knows what really happened, so he’s more likely to come up with an explanation that normal people will swallow than we are.”

“He’s right, Stiles. And I can hear sirens, about a mile and a half away, so we should go. Boyd, Isaac, take my car.” Derek grabs Stiles by the forearm and drags him towards the Jeep at a run.

Stiles drops the gun, hoping he got rid of the last of the fingerprints, and grabs his keys. He starts the Jeep up and drives away as fast as he can, glad that everything out here is paved. Derek directs him, taking turns farther into a side of town he doesn’t know well, but keeping them out of sight of approaching police cars. “Where am I taking you?”

When he looks over at Derek, Derek’s looking at him like he’s an idiot. “Your place.”

“C’mon, dude. I was planning to just shower the blood off and go to bed, so unless you’re planning to join me in either of those activities, it’s gonna be real boring for you.”

The silence stretches out taut and thin after that, until Stiles darts another glance at Derek. Derek’s just watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. Derek’s eyes snap to his, and his mouth thins. “You have a head injury.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m concussed.”

Derek takes an audibly deep breath. “And I wanted to say thank you for saving my life.”

Stiles starts, and pulls the Jeep violently over to the side of the road. They’re clear enough of the crime scene that it should be fine. “Am I going to die? Is that why you’re saying that? Do I actually have a concussion that’s going to kill me? Because if I do, I’m not sure you should be letting me drive.”

Derek tilts his head back until it hits the headrest with a thunk, a pained expression on his face. “You’re not dying, Stiles.”

Bracing an arm on the steering wheel so he could turn more fully, Stiles demands, “Are you dying? Because you don’t just say shit like that. You don’t say thank you, you don’t try to look after people except, like, taking them to the vet and then brooding in the corner - which, okay, might have been what you had planned tonight - but why the hell would you change now?”

“I’m trying,” he grits out.

“But why? You don’t like me, you don’t even trust me -”

“I trust you,” Derek interrupts.

Stiles feels like he wasted his dramatic pulling over of the car for the night. Because this? Deserves drama. It’s kind of momentous. He gapes at Derek like a fish out of water. Deliberately, he closes his mouth, but it’s opening again without his permission, “Really?” tumbling out.

A muscle in Derek’s jaw twitches. “Yes.”

Stiles turns around to face forward. “Oh.”

He starts the Jeep, and starts driving a circuitous route home. He can’t help the glances he keeps sneaking at Derek, and at the first stoplight, he turns to look at him more fully again. “Really?”

“For the love of God, Stiles, yes. Now shut up and drive.”

He smiles, and takes Derek home with him.

His dad’s still at work, so they both go in the front door and up the stairs to his room, which has to be some kind of miracle: Derek voluntarily using stairs. That’s part of what has Stiles pausing, debating whether or not to grab clean clothes to change into. But it’s a night for miracles, so Stiles just gestures vaguely at his room. “You know where everything is. I’m going to go shower.”

He strips in the bathroom, and finds a puncture in his Tshirt that matches a thin red-beaded scratch a couple inches above his belly button. His shoulder’s the kind of red and tender that’ll bruise some, but it’s not bad, and his head’s about the same kind of tender where it slammed against the ground. Not bad, really. He sets the amber on the side of the sink so that he remembers to take it back to Deaton in the morning and skins off the rest of his clothes. Stiles showers quickly, because he wants to do this before his courage fails him completely. He scrubs the towel quickly over his head and then wraps it around his waist, walking back to his room with water still running down his ankles.

Derek looks up from the book on his lap as soon as Stiles opens the door. He looks at Stiles’ naked torso and back up to his face, and quirks an eyebrow when Stiles makes no move towards his dresser.

“Can I kiss you?”

Derek’s hands convulse on the book. His eyes go wide. “Don’t joke, Stiles.”

Stiles fists his hands in the edge of the towel. “I’m not. I thought you said you trusted me?”

“I do, but -” Derek cuts himself off with a high-pitched noise of frustration. “You’re always making these jokes.”

Stiles snorts. “I’m pretty serious about them, actually. So should I take this as rejection, or can I kiss you?”

“No - yes - fuck.” Derek crosses the room in three long strides, the book forgotten on the floor. His boots make him noticeably taller than Stiles as he crowds into his space and stares down at him, eyes luminous in the drawing dark.

Slowly, Stiles reaches up and wraps a hand around the back of Derek’s neck, thumb slotting perfectly into the groove behind his ear. He exerts the slightest pressure, more encouragement than anything else, and brings his lips to Derek’s. Their mouths slide against each other, and it’s way, way better than sloppy Spin the Bottle as a freshman. Derek licks at the seam of his lips, and Stiles’ mouth falls open. He slides his tongue along Derek’s, into his mouth, and everything is hot and wet.

Derek puts a tentative hand on his hip, and it’s warm and Stiles wants his hands all over. Derek’s still shirtless, so it’s just a matter of swaying forward to have their chests pressed together. Stiles wraps his free arm around Derek’s lower back, because he’s seen the dimples there and he needs his hands on them. They kiss and kiss, and Stiles’ head spins with how much he wants this, how much he wants anything else Derek will give him.

Derek breaks away from the kiss to mouth desperately at Stiles’ neck, and it’s all Stiles can do just to breathe and cling. Derek nips sharply at his collarbone, and Stiles slides his hand up Derek's neck to shove deep in his hair and drag him back into a kiss. Stiles backs Derek up until they’re right at the edge of the bed. Derek sits, both of his hands on Stiles’ waist, and looks up with an expression of hope on his face that makes something in Stiles’ chest clench tight. He puts a hand on either side of Derek’s face and kisses him again, soft and promissory, because words, yes, talking, they need to do that.

His voice is almost definitely going to come out breathy if he tries to talk normally, so Stiles pitches his voice low. “I want to do more than kiss you.”

Derek smirks and looks down Stiles’ body to where the towel is tented, then back up. “Really?”

Stiles laughs. “Oh my God, you asshole. Yes. But you should tell me what you want, if you want it, too. I’m up for pretty much anything that isn’t full-on anal.”

The look on Derek’s face, the sheer punch-out lust, is flattering. So’s his voice, all rough around the edges. “Can I finger you?”

“Hell yes,” Stiles says, and lurches away towards desk to get his lube from the drawer. The towel sags as he moves, and he grabs it, then looks at Derek and lets it fall. Derek swallows hard. Stiles says, “You should be naked, too.”

Derek fumbles for his boots, the first time Stiles has seen him less than perfectly in control of his body. It’s heady. Stiles dives onto the bed behind Derek, sliding up until he’s comfortably situated with his head on the pillows. Derek turns to look at him, then stands to shuck his pants. He’s gorgeous, all smooth skin stretched over muscle, and he’s watching Stiles like he’s the most important person in the world.

He stretches over Stiles, comes down to kiss him, and all that naked awesomeness is pressed against him. Stiles writhes against him, just to feel him, then presses the lube to Derek’s hand. Having his dick against someone else’s naked skin is not going to last very long, and he wants Derek - he wants Derek to get what Derek wants, not least because it’ll be hot.

Derek kisses him sweetly and kneels back, squirting lube onto one hand.

Stiles lets his legs fall apart to give Derek access. Derek inhales sharply and moves down his body, licking and sucking as he goes. He presses one finger to Stiles’ asshole and it slides in almost easily, mostly feeling alien. He licks a stripe up Stiles’ cock, and wow, yeah, everything feels pretty good now.

Another finger joins the first, and its a stretch, but it feels grounding, more real, more definite that yeah, this is actually happening. Derek looks rapt where he’s watching his fingers disappear into Stiles’ ass. His fingers slide in and out, and the feeling of stretching fades a little and everything just feels fantastic. The bedside light is shining in his eyes, but he doesn’t want to reach to turn it off, because then he wouldn’t be able to watch Derek’s face.

The slow thrust wouldn’t be enough to get him off, not alone, but Derek wraps his lips around Stiles’ cock, and the whole thing feels better than anything ever should. Like, he’s pretty sure there are some laws of physics or thermodynamics or something that are being completely violated by how awesome he feels with Derek’s mouth sucking him off and Derek’s fingers fucking him.

There are these completely embarrassing noises spilling out of him with every thrust of Derek’s fingers, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s getting close, close to getting off for the first time with someone else, and he gasps out Derek’s name.

Derek picks up the pace, finally, and sucks hard, and Stiles is going, going, gone, shooting down Derek’s throat. He’s shaking and oversensitive and all he can do is clutch vaguely at Derek’s shoulders and say, “C’mere, c’mere, lemme kiss you.”

Derek moves sinuously, and then he’s right there in easy kissing distance, elbows braced on either side of Stiles’ head. Stiles takes advantage of this by kissing Derek, swiping his tongue into Derek’s mouth and tasting himself there, and he reaches for Derek, because he’s just come and he’s all tingly and uncoordinated because of it, but he hasn’t gotten to touch Derek’s dick at all, and he really wants to. “Hey, is it okay if I - can I jerk you off?”

Derek lets his head fall so their foreheads are pressed together, and he’s breathing hard and unsteady. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you want.”

Stiles runs his hands over Derek, over the hard length of him, and he’s not cut and it feels different, interesting, and Stiles will need to get his mouth on him sometime, but right now it’s all he can do to keep his limbs working properly. He strokes Derek quickly, not quite rough, just firm and to the point: he wants Derek to come on him. “I want you to come on me.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and his voice is wrecked.

Stiles can’t believe that he did that, that he’s got Derek this undone. He bites frantically at Derek’s neck so he doesn’t say something stupid, and also because Derek just tastes great, a little salty and slick because he hadn’t had a chance to shower. It doesn’t take Derek long to come after that, and he shudders when he does, like it’s almost painful.

He hovers, still propped on his forearms. “I should get a cloth.”

Stiles smiles beatifically and gestures to the headboard. “Just use tissues, dude. You should stay. Actually, yeah, you should totally stay, at least until my dad comes back.”

Derek pauses. “Okay.” He grabs the tissues and cleans Stiles’ stomach up as best as possible and throws them vaguely in the direction of the wastebasket, then settles in next to Stiles.

The fit feels right, and Stiles is overwhelmingly content as he drifts to sleep.


End file.
